


Bandaids (Don't Fix Bulletholes)

by orphan_account



Series: (Closed Mouths Don't Get Fed) On This Boulevard [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5+1 Things, Big Brother Dean, Gen, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Momma Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 17:46:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5384684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What was that, Sammy? Was that your first word?” Dean carefully carried his brother to the couch to sit with him. “Daddy’s gonna be so proud, Sammy. Can you say ‘Daddy’?”<br/>“Mama!” Sam said again, reaching for Dean’s nose.</p><p>(Or alternatively, the five times Sam won’t stop calling Dean “Momma”, and the one time Sam had stopped but started again.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bandaids (Don't Fix Bulletholes)

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd; self-indulgent Momma!Dean feels.
> 
> I apologize for any mistakes that I've made. I'm currently in the market for a beta, but it's slow going.

_** One. ** _

 

Dean would never let Sammy know, but before he turned eight, he would call Dean “Momma”.

It had been his first word, spoken into the silence of a small motel room as Dean stirred a pot of soup. Dean had dropped the spoon he was using into the pot in surprise, splattering his last clean shirt with tomato. Pouting, he attempted to mop up the mess before giving up. He had forgotten about Sam until he did it again.

“Mama!”

Dean turned and went to his little brother, making sure to turn the stove off. He lifted the tiny boy out of the makeshift play area he made with a few pillows and the coffee table.

“What was that, Sammy? Was that your first word?” Dean carefully carried his brother to the couch to sit with him. “Daddy’s gonna be so proud, Sammy. Can you say ‘Daddy’?”

“Mama!” Sam said again, reaching for Dean’s nose.

Dean laughed. “No, Sammy. Dada. Da-da. Daaaaaa.”

Sam pouted a little. “Mama.”

They continued this game a for the better part of an hour until John came back with a six pack and a food for Sam.

“Daddy!” Dean exclaimed, smiling. “Sammy said his first word! Come on, Sammy, just one more time for Daddy, yeah?”

Sam stared at Dean for a long moment before smiling his little smile and squirming with a giggle at Dean’s excitement.

John, who had been watching this with a tired look, sighed. “Dean, I don’t have time for this. I’m exhausted, and you shouldn’t be getting Sam riled up this late. He’s got to go to bed soon. You know better than that, son.”

Dean, who had started tickling Sam, looked up at his father’s words. The smile slid off his face as he nodded sadly. “Yessir,” he mumbled softly. He lifted the baby up and toddled toward the collapsible crib they had. Watching as John settled on the couch with a beer, he gently place Sam in his bed.

“Night, baby,” Dean whispered, placing a soft kiss on Sam’s forehead. “Remember that angels are watching over you.”

Sam looked at him a little sleepily before murmuring softly, “Mama.”

“Yeah, Sammy. Mama’s watching over you too.”

_It wasn’t until a little while later that Dean realized Sam had been calling him and not Mary._

 

 

_**Two.** _

 

 

It was when Sammy was four when the next problem popped up in the name he had given Dean.

“Why won’t Daddy let me call you Momma?”

Dean froze from where he was laying next to Sam, the hand that was carding through Sam’s hair stopping. He had been reading Dr. Seuss, letting the rhyming cadence gentle the boy’s mind as he attempted to put Sammy to sleep.

His hand started up again as he asked, “What do you mean, Sam-I-Am?”

Sammy squirmed a little before settling back against Dean with a sigh. “Daddy said that you aren’t my momma, so I can’t call you that anymore. But I said you _are_ my momma because you do all the things that my friends say mommas do.” He looked up at Dean. “You agree with me, right, Momma?”

Dean looked back at his baby (brother). Since he could talk, Dean had always been “Momma” to Sam. Their dad was gone often enough that it wasn’t that big of a problem that Sam never called him by his name, but lately John had been staying longer and longer between hunts. He had made it known to Dean that Sam wasn’t to forget Mary and her sacrifice, and Dean made it known to Sam that around Dad, Sam shouldn’t call him that. He was normally good about it, not asking why but listening to Dean without question. But Sam _was_ only four, so he had probably had slipped up somewhere, and John had caught it.

Those big hazel eyes were still looking at him, filled with such a large amount of trust that Dean knew if he were to say that Sammy couldn’t call him “Momma” anymore, the little boy would stop immediately. It was how things always went: Dean’s word was law. But for some reason, he couldn’t. He knew that Sammy wasn’t his actual kid, as they were only four years apart, but Dean couldn’t help but feel how he did. Sammy was as close to the real thing as any child born from Dean could be.

And wasn’t Sam right, anyway? Dean did do everything that a mom would do for their kid. Dean remembered Mary teaching him how to tie his laces ( _tie it flat, take ‘em back, have no fear-make two ears, cross the two, bring it through, now your laces are tied!_ ), make a pb&j, scrub behind his ears, jump into leaf piles-just like he taught Sam. Dean hadn’t even thought to teach Sam the things Daddy taught him, as Daddy was there, but Dean _had_ stepped in to teach Sammy everything his momma taught him.

Dean smiled down at Sam, leaning over and kissing him on the forehead- _just like Mary_ -and said, “Of course I do, Sammy. You can call me whatever you want.”

Sam smiled brightly and snuggled down tighter against Dean. He tapped the forgotten book on his _momma’s_ lap. “Can you finish, please, Momma?”

Dean lifted the book, finding the place he had left off. _“…I will not let you fall. I will hold you up high as I stand on a ball. With a book in one hand! And a cup on my hat! But that is not ALL I can do!…”_

_Once Sam was asleep, Dean slipped out of bed to make their lunches for the morning, humming a song under his breath that his mother used to._

 

_**Three.** _

 

The next time there was a problem, Sam was six and had just finished his first day of first grade.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong, Sam-I-Am?” Dean demanded, wrapping his arms around the sobbing boy. Sammy had come barreling out of the doors and straight into Dean’s arms, tears pouring down his face. Dean’s first instinct was to find whoever made his baby cry and beat the snot out of them, but he pushed that down, knowing that the vice grip Sam had on his t-shirt wouldn’t let him go very far.

Sammy just shook his head, sobs turning into gasping breaths as he tried to calm himself down, and Dean did what any self-respecting ten-year-old would: he lifted Sam into his arms like a baby and carried him off the school grounds. He shushed the boy as they walked toward the motel that was down the street, Dean only getting a block before he had to put Sam down. The younger boy’s face was puffy and red, and he kept having these hitching breaths that Dean knew from experience was Sam’s attempt to not start crying again.

Once they were in the room, Dean herded Sam towards the bed and laid him down, scrambling up next to him after grabbing the book he had been reading the night before. He petted Sam’s hair softly before crooning, “It’s alright, baby boy, look at me. Let Momma see you.”

Sam hiccupped a few times before turning his face enough that he could shift and bury into Dean. Dean sighed and continued petting him.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Dean said, voice still soft.

Sam frowned and looked like he might start crying again, but he sighed and flopped loosely onto Dean. “One of the boys told me that I don’t have a Momma because she hated me when I was born. And then I said that I do _too_ have a Momma, and that you’re the best one in the whole wide world because you’re _my_ Momma. But then he pushed me, calling me a liar because if I did have one, she would pick me up from school. So I pushed him back, saying you do pick me up, and that he’s the liar and if he ain’t careful, he’s gonna end up with the Momma that don’t like _him!_ ”

By the end of his speech, Sam’s face was screwed up with anger and he was shouting, struggling to lift himself up. Dean rolled his eyes and pulled him back down, holding him until Sam stopped struggling. “That doesn’t tell me why you were crying,” Dean remarked.

Sam pouted. “After I pushed him, Ms. Liney put me in the time-out corner until I would tell her what happened. I tried real hard not to say anything, because I’m not a snitch, but she said that she’d call Dad if I didn’t tell her. So, I told her, but she didn’t listen! She kept trying to tell me that you’re not my Momma, you’re my _brother_ , and I know that, but you are also my Momma. So, I ran out before she could say more and now we’re here.”

Dean looked down at him, not knowing what to say. Sam was insistent on calling him “Momma” and Dean wasn’t going to lie and say that he didn’t like it. So Dean said the one thing that always worked-”I’m always going to be your Momma, Sammy.”-and pulled the blankets up so that they could cuddle on the bed as he grabbed _Charlotte’s Web_ to read.

_ Ms. Liney didn’t know what happened to her car the next day, only that it was fine when she came to work, but wouldn’t start when she tried to leave. _

 

_**Four.** _

 

The fourth time wasn’t anything special, except for the fact that it was a few months later.

“You don’t get to tell me who my Momma is!” Sammy screamed before punching his classmate in the mouth hard enough to knock loose a tooth. Dean was the one to pull him away from the fight before anything else could happen, but he gave Sammy an extra scoop of ice cream later that night after dinner.

 _It was_ awesome _._

 

**_Five._ **

 

The last time he called Dean “Momma” as a kid was just after Dean had gotten hurt.

Dean had gone out earlier that day to figure out what they were going to eat for dinner. He left Sammy sitting at the table doing homework before taking the meager stash of money they had left and heading out.

Standing in line at the small grocery store, Dean was counting the cash he had in hand and swearing when he realized he was short. Goddamn it, fucking John dipping in for his fucking whiskey shit.

The cashier was frowning at him.

“Hey, kid, you got the money or not? ‘Cause I ain’t gonna sit here all day.”

Dean nodded, counting the money one more time. He could see out the corner of his eye the food all bagged up, and knew that in order to let Sammy eat tonight, he was going to have to make a break for it. Taking a deep breath, he tossed the money at the cashier, surprising him into taking a step back as Dean reached up and grabbed the bag of groceries. He sprinted for the doors, ignoring the yells of the man behind him as he pushed his legs to go faster. He was a good runner, there was no doubt; his dad made him train almost day and night to stay in shape, as you never knew what could come after you at any moment.

A sharp crack sounded, and Dean’s leg was suddenly on fire. He stumbled a bit in surprise before gritting his teeth and forcing himself to run through the pain. If he could get around the corner, he would be home free.

Another crack, this time hitting the tree next to him, and he pushed himself even harder. It seemed like a long time, but he finally made it around the corner and could see the motel.

Sam screamed a little bit as Dean slammed into the room, and a crash sounded from the bathroom. Before Dean could say anything, John burst out of it with a shotgun in his hand, towel barely around his hips. Seeing Dean wide-eyed against the door, he growled out, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, boy, slamming door and scaring your brother like that? I could’ve shot you, thinking you were something attacking!”

Dean didn’t say anything, just still looking wide-eyed at John. Why was he back so early?

Sammy’s gasp tore both of them out of their thoughts, and the younger boy ran towards Dean, eyes locked on the bloody pant leg.

"Your leg! Are you okay?"

Dean sighed. "I'm fine, Sammy. I just need to get the gross stuff out of my leg, baby."

John made a face at the nickname Dean used on Sammy but dropped the gun. He grabbed Dean's arm and yanked him over to the couch. "Samuel, grab the first aid kit from the bathroom."

It was quiet as Sam did what he was told and crawled under Dean's arm to cuddle next to him as he watched. John went to work, pulling out the little pieces of debris that had gotten caught in his eldest's leg. He wrapped it roughly and lifted it up to rest on the couch. "That should do it. We'll get some meds to numb it and you should be right back to walking soon."

Sammy cuddled further into Dean so he could whisper, "Are you really okay, Momma?"

"I'm fi-" Dean started before John cut him off.

"What did you call him, boy?" he growled.

Sammy's eyes widened, locking with Dean's for a terrified moment before he sat up a little and said with a wavering voice, "I called him my momma, sir."

“He ain’t your momma!” John screamed at Sammy, causing both of the boy's to jump. Dean tensed at the sheer fury in his father's voice. “How many fucking times do I got to say that to you until you get it in your thick skull?” he asked, advancing toward Sammy with his hand raised.

Dean reacted instinctively, shifting in front of his baby and taking the hit meant for him. Dean cradled his eye as John looked over them with disgust.

“Maybe now you’ll learn,” he growled out, stumbling back towards the bathroom. Sam flinched as the door slammed and wormed his way under Dean’s free arm.

He stared at the bruise already forming. “I’m sorry, Mo-” He bit his lip, looking nervous. “-Dean,” he finished. “I’m sorry you got hit, Dean.”

Dean looked at the boy under his arm, heart breaking at the sight of the determined look in Sam’s eyes. Dean knew that from now on, Sam would probably never call him “Momma” again, all because John placed the blame on his baby boy for Dean getting hurt.

 _Dean didn’t think Sam calling him by his name would hurt so much, but every time Sam didn’t_ say _“Momma” felt like a stab to Dean’s heart._

 

_**\+ One.** _

 

Dean was dying when he finally heard it from his baby boy once again.

"Dean, _Dean,_ " Sam sobbed, pressing his hands against his brother's chest from where the hellhounds ripped him up. "Dean, no, you can't die, you can't leave me, you're all I got left."

Dean wanted to comfort Sam, lift a hand and run it through his hair (that Dean still thought was absurd, like what did that college do to him that he thought it was okay to have hair hanging in his face, didn't he want to _see_ what he was doing, _oh my god_ ) like he had when Sam was sick and asking for a story at bedtime. But he couldn't feel his arms to lift them, and Sam's tears had always been harder to handle than any real injury that Dean ever sustained.

It was then that Dean really heard what Sam was saying.

"--you can't, you _can't_ , don't leave me, please, please Momma, please don't leave me again, you can't die on me, _Momma,_ Momma, don't _go--_ "

Dean hadn't heard Sammy call him that in so long, that it gave him enough strength to cough and force enough air into his mutilated lungs for one last thing to say.

"Hush, b-baby, Momma's here. Momma's al-always here. I-I love yo-ou, Sam-I-Am." Sammy started sobbing harder, gasping for breath. Dean watched him through lidded eyes as he felt his strength leaving him. "M-Momma always lo-loves you, ba-baby boy."

The last words Dean heard before he stopped breathing were the words that kept him partially sane through the next forty years.

"I love you, too, Momma."


End file.
